Tantras (22 page)

Midnight and Adon moved toward Kelemvor, but Durrock and Sejanus were already on their feet, rushing to head off the heroes.

“Run!” Kelemvor called, gritting his teeth as he struggled with his bonds. “I’ll be all right!”

“I doubt that very much,” Durrock hissed as he stood over the green-eyed fighter. The scarred assassin drew his sword.

Midnight hesitated for a moment, wondering if she should attempt another incantation. The spell she had cast against Varro had gone awry, but nevertheless it had worked in her favor. However, Midnight doubted she would be so fortunate if she were to cast a second spell against the remaining assassins.

“Forget the fighter, Durrock!” Sejanus shouted as he raised his bolos over his head. “He’s not going anywhere. Get the witch! She’s the one we were sent for!”

“Run, damn you!” Kelemvor screamed, glaring at his companions. Durrock kicked Kelemvor in the side of the head with his heavy boot. The fighter was struck speechless by the blow, and his head swam in a sea of pain.

Adon grabbed Midnight’s hand and pulled her toward the open door at the front of the warehouse. “You can’t help him now!” Adon explained quickly. “We’ll have to come back for him!”

A look of desperation crossed Midnight’s features, and she allowed Adon to pull her forward. The bright sunlight from the doorway, no more than six feet away now, was nearly blinding as the mage and the cleric turned and ran for it. Then Midnight and Adon heard the sharp hiss of Sejanus’s bolos slicing through the air as the assassin prepared to hurl them.

“Down!” Midnight screamed as she shoved Adon to the floor. The bolos whistled through the air just above the heroes’ heads and went spinning down the street outside the warehouse.

Grabbing Adon’s hand, Midnight jumped to her feet and yanked the cleric from the floor. Quickly they crossed the half dozen feet to the doorway, but the heavy footsteps of Bane’s assassins sounded close behind the heroes as they leaped from the warehouse out into the light.

The Zhentish garrison was to her left when Midnight burst from the warehouse, so she quickly ruled out running in that direction and headed to the right. The dry dirt street that the mage and the cleric found themselves on seemed to lead into the center of town. As they ran deeper into Scardale, they heard the sounds of fighting grow louder and louder, although the closest skirmish they could see was a number of blocks away, off to their right. Behind them, the heroes could hear the cries of the assassins and the Zhentilar from the garrison.

The heroes raced through the narrow, twisting streets, looking for someplace to hide from their pursuers. They ran until the road they were following met another street to form a T. Midnight and Adon could hear the voices of the Zhentilar behind them, so there was no doubling back. The street to her left was lined with bodies and rubble from burned-out buildings. To her right, a huge, overturned wagon blocked the street, and a raging fire consumed a short, squat building. Thick smoke covered the road obscuring everything that lay beyond the wagon.

“The Zhentilar are following us!” Adon wheezed between breaths. “Where can we hide?”

“How close are they?” a voice hissed from Midnight’s left. Midnight looked sharply and saw one of the corpses raise his head. The corpse frowned. “From your expressions, I would guess they’re right on your heels.”

The “dead man” rose to his feet and dusted himself off. His violet clothing was trimmed with gold mesh, and bloodstains that had turned a deep brown covered him from head to toe. His yellow boots were almost brown with dirt, and he wore a cape with a crimson lining. The man’s fine, golden hair was matted and tangled, but Midnight could see that it was very long, curling about his shoulders. He was armed with a short sword and a dagger. On his forehead was a large, ugly purple welt.

“Come on, then,” the man said cheerfully as he gestured for Midnight and Adon to follow him. “Don’t just stand there. You’ve already called enough attention to me. We might as well make a run for it.”

Midnight looked back and saw Sejanus, Durrock, and a few Zhentilar approaching. Although the assassins were trying to run, their armor did not allow them much more than a brisk walk. The Zhentilar, on the other hand, broke into a sprint when they saw the mage and the cleric. When Durrock saw the heroes break into a run after the golden-haired man, he stopped and headed back toward the garrison.

Midnight glanced over her shoulder as she ran and saw the scarred assassin quit the chase. “He’s going to get his mount!” the mage gasped. She tightened her hold on Adon’s hand as they ran through the street lined with corpses.

After several hundred yards, the man ducked around a corner and led the heroes into an alley between two large buildings. As the shadows of the alley engulfed them, Midnight and Adon realized that they faced a dead end. Midnight was about to speak when the man turned, smiled, and said, “If we’re going to die together, I’d like to know who I’m dying with.”

“I’m Midnight of Deepingdale. This is Adon, a cleric of -“

“Adon,” the cleric hissed and ran his hand over his scar. “Just Adon.”

“Fair enough,” the man answered, running his hand through his long, golden hair. “My name is Varden.” The man turned toward the end of the alley, but Adon grabbed his arm.

“Why are you helping us?” the voting cleric asked.

Varden turned back to face the heroes, the slight smile gone from his face. “You’re being hunted by the Zhents, right?”

Midnight and Adon nodded. A handful of Zhentilar ran past the alley. The three fugitives held their breath and pulled farther back into the shadows. Luckily none of the soldiers stopped to investigate the alley.

The man nodded toward the street where the soldiers had just passed. “That’s reason enough,” Varden growled. Adon took his hand from the man’s arm. Varden turned back down the alley. “Now let’s get rid of your slow-witted pursuers so we can talk in less… stressful circumstances.”

Adon and Midnight followed Varden deeper into the shadows. Soon the golden-haired man uncovered a side door to a building flanking them on the right. He yanked at the door and found that it was locked.

Just then, Sejanus appeared at the entrance to the alley, bolos in hand.

“I hate working under pressure,” Varden hissed as he pulled a small set of tools from a hand at his wrist.

“You’re a thief?” Midnight gasped, her eyes growing wide with disbelief.

“I assure you, I am fully licensed and accredited by the Thieves’ Guild,” Varden said as he fitted a skeleton key into the lock. He did not take his attentions from his work. “I suppose that lummox is still coming.”

Midnight looked back toward the head of the alley and saw Sejanus approaching, the bolos whirling over his head. The assassin was less than seventy-five feet away. “Come, little mage!” Sejanus rumbled. “I have no wish to bring damaged merchandise back to Lord Bane. Make this easy on me, and I promise to return the favor later on.”

Shuddering, Midnight looked back to the thief. “Hurry!” she urged.

“There! That should do it!” Varden cried. A series of tumblers fell inside the lock, and the thief grabbed the door’s handle. Varden pushed Midnight and Adon into the darkened hall, then slammed the door closed behind him. Sejanus screamed in frustration and threw his bolos. The weapon crashed into the door.

In the semidarkness of the cluttered festhall, Varden struggled to find the locking mechanism on the inside of the door. It took him a moment to find the proper levers and lock the heavy oaken door. “That should hold him for a moment or two,” the thief chuckled as he turned to survey the musty, deserted hall. “What have we here?”

A dull yellow light shone in the main room of the festhall, its source a rather large hole in the ceiling that had been partially covered with rotting timber. The light revealed a long room with a decrepit wooden staircase and a crumbling balcony that ran around the edges of the entire building. The ground floor of the hall was dominated by a large oaken table. The table was warped and decaying in places, and it ran for almost the entire length of the building.

Though the edges of the room on the first floor were hidden in deep shadows, Varden could see that at least twenty suits of armor lined the walls. All were rusted, half were incomplete. Above each suit, a few weapons, many twisted or broken, hung on display. Midnight thought she heard the hushed whispers of a dozen or more voices, but she devised that it must be the wind through the hole in the root.

“Seems like we’ve stumbled across some old meeting hall.” Varden said as he walked toward a shield on the wall. Any coat of arms the shield had once held had been erased in time and rust. “From the armor and weapons, I’d guess it belonged to some order of knights - maybe even paladins,” the thief added.

There was a loud crash at the door through which the heroes bad entered, and Midnight heard Sejanus curse loudly. Midnight and Adon quickly scanned the room for another exit. When she saw none, the mage turned to the thief, panic in her eyes. “Where can we hide?”

Varden laughed. “We need to escape, not hide. Any minute now, the Zhents who ran past the alley will come running back, looking for their leader.” The thief paused and looked around the room. “If we hide here, we’re as good as dead.”

Sejanus crashed against the door again. “You cannot escape me, mage!” the assassin bellowed.

“That’s just what you’d expect him to say,” Varden chuckled. “Those Zhents have absolutely no imagination!”

“That’s a clever observation,” Adon snapped. “So use your imagination to find the other exits.”

Varden leaned against the wall and shrugged. “I haven’t the slightest idea where they might be.”

“What do you mean, you don’t know!? Then why did you bring us here?” Midnight cried.

“So we wouldn’t have to face your friend out there,” Varden growled, pointing at the door. “Believe me, I’m as much in the dark about this place as you are. Start searching the edges of the room for another door.”

The crash at the door came again. This time the wooden door splintered slightly and bent inward on its hinges. As Midnight approached the edge of the hall, near one of the suits of armor, she heard whispering again. It seemed to come from the rusted suit of plate mail. In other parts of the hall, Varden and Adon heard the voices, too.

“Conflict,” a battered suit of armor whispered. “We lived and died for conflict.”

To Adon’s right, a set of antique plate mail with a large hole in its ornate breastplate turned to face the cleric “For law and the cause of good, we gave our lives. Fought rust and wear to save our masters. In Anauroch, my lord was slain. They bore me back, a monument to his greatness.”

Varden started and began to back away, but a rusted mail hauberk coiled its chain sleeve around his arm. “At the foot of the Glacier of the White Worm I tell, unable to prevent a giant’s club from bashing in my lord’s skull.” The thief tried to pull away from the ghostly armor, but it held him tight. “We serve the force of good,” a voice whispered from the hauberk. “Whom do you serve?”

All around the room, creaking suits of plate mail stepped off pedestals and grabbed rusting halberds and swords. Chain mail hauberks tilled out, as if worn by invisible knights, and stepped to the center of the room. “Yes, whom do you serve?” a dozen phantom voices rasped.

“We - we work for the good of the Realms,” Midnight cried. The suits of armor paused for a moment, and for that moment there was silence in the festhall. The hauberk released Varden, and the thief hurried to Midnight’s side. Adon walked slowly across the room, shaking his head.

“The whole world has gone mad!” the young cleric sighed. Before anyone could respond, though, the door to the alley splintered into a dozen pieces, and Sejanus burst into the room.

“In the name of Bane, what’s going on here?” The assassin gasped as he looked around the room at the ten full suits of armor holding weapons, standing as it poised for battle. In the shadows at the edges of the room, incomplete or badly damaged suits waved their battered, rusting arms and turned toward Sejanus.

“Your armor gives you away, servant of darkness!” the suit of plate with the gash in the breastplate rasped and raised its bent sword.

Sejanus began to laugh nervously. “Little mage, is this your doing?” Midnight didn’t answer, but she and her companions moved behind the advancing armor.

“Born in fire!” a set of armor whispered as it grabbed a halberd and pointed the poleax at the assassin. Sejanus glanced to his left and saw a second suit of armor approaching him.

“This is madness!” Sejanus growled and tossed his bolos at the suit of plate wielding the halberd. The armor easily deflected the bolos with its halberd and continued to advance on the assassin. Sejanus drew his sword. “I grow tired of your display, mage. Stop this at once or you will pay for your impudence later!”

As they backed toward the far end of the hall, Varden leaned close to Midnight and whispered, “Are you responsible for this?”

Midnight frowned and shook her head vigorously. “No. This is just another of nature’s tricks or some ancient magic that was set here long before we stumbled across it.”

Adon grabbed Varden’s sleeve and pointed into the darkness at the end of the room. A small wooden door lay in the shadows, but a series of boards were nailed across it, holding it tightly closed. “We can escape through here while the armor keeps the assassin occupied,” Adon said and turned toward the door.

Suddenly there was an explosion of wood from above. Sunlight flooded the warehouse as huge chunks of rotting wood fell to the floor. The heroes dove under the long table. Sejanus and the animated suits of armor slopped moving. All eyes turned to the roof of the festhall.

There, hung in the air above the hole in the ceiling, was Durrock, riding his nightmare. The horrible creature was shattering the boards that covered the hole with its flaming hooves. Obviously Durrock desperately wanted to get inside the warehouse. He wanted Midnight.

“We’re leaving now!” Varden yelled as he grabbed Midnight’s hand. “Cover your head.”

Taking advantage of the confusion caused by Durrock’s appearance, Varden, Midnight, and Adon broke from the cover of the table and rushed between two living suits of armor toward the door that led out into the alley. Sejanus was howling with rage as the ring of animated suits of armor tightened around him.